(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling and the British Army)

Johnny went public with 'is boasts, an' 'ero without fear,

'Til sudden like the Swifties say, 'We got a turncoat 'ere.'

The Libs they just ignored 'em, sayin' 'Ah, it's all a lie!'

Then Johnny's outted by their ads an' to myself says I:

Oh it's Johnny this an' Johnny that, 'e's the 'ero of the day.

But it's wait now, Mr. Kerry, what's that record really say?

The horns are loudly blowin' boys as our band begins to play,

An' it's goodbye, Mr. Kerry, as they blow your arse away.

Johnny goes to Cincinnati sober as a man can be,

An' they give ol' George a 'Bravo Lad!' but John no sympathy.

They give 'im plain their message, sittin' silent in the 'alls,

That when it comes to fightin' men, they know oo's got the balls.

For it's Johnny this an' Johnny that, but wait, he might 'a lied

From the platform of his campaign train an' on the Boston tide.

His ship is on the tide, my boys, his ship is on the tide,

An' it's plain as day she's sinkin' boys, because the turncoat lied.

Yes Johnny mocked our uniforms that guard you while you sleep.

He cheapened all our medals throwing his upon that heap;

An' rustlin' up his phony troops, he led them for a bit,

Until his aspirations and theirs no longer fit.

Now it's Johnny this an' Johnny that, an' Johnny how's yer soul,

In that brave front rank of 'eroes as our drums begin their roll?

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

An' they'll keep right on a rollin' boys, 'til we chuck 'im in the hole.

We make no claim as 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But 'onorable men an' warriors, fightin' once agin for you.

An' if your 'ero's record, our charges soundly taint,

That's what we're tryin' to tell you blokes, your 'ero ain't no saint.

For it's Johnny this an' Johnny that, an' 'Check him out, the Loot!'

Was 'e the 'Savior of 'is country' when the guns begin to shoot?

Now it's Johnny's turn to prove us wrong, an' make us all out liars,

By signin' that one eighty form an' puttin out the fires.

Oh it's Johnny this an' Johnny that, 'e's the  'ero of the day,

But it's hold on, Mr. Kerry, what's that record really say?

The horns are loudly blowin' boys, as our band begins to play,

'Cheerio, Old Man,' to Johnny and blows his arse away.

Russ Vaughn

2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment

101st Airborne Division

Vietnam 65—66

[Editor's note: The original text of Kipling's poem "Tommy" follows]

TOMMY

I went into a public—'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red—coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
    O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
    But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
    The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
    O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music—'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
    For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
    But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
    The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
    O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
    Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
    But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
    The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
    O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
    While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
    But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
    There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
    O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook—room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier—man's disgrace.
    For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
    But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
    An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
    An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool —— you bet that Tommy sees!